UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 

SECOND  SERIES 


POEMS 

SECOND    SERIES 

BY    J.     C.    SQUIRE 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  1921, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY. 


FEINTED   IN   THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


?fc 

(p03'| 

S 


TO 

EDWARD  SHANKS 


ENGLISH 


PREFACE 

Three  years  ago  I  published  a  volume  called  Poems:  First 
Series,  which  contained  a  collection  of  what  I  had  written 
between  1905  and  March,  1918. 

The  present  collection  contains  all  that  I  have  written  since 
then.  The  Birds  and  seven  shorter  poems  were  published  in 
a  small  book  in  1920.  The  Moon  was  separately  published  in 
1920,  but  the  majority  of  the  poems  here  printed  appear  in 
book  form  for  the  first  time  and  twelve  have  never  previously 
been  published. 

The  Poems  are  as  nearly  as  possible  in  chronological  order, 
except  that  the  group  called  An  Epilogue  were  written  early 
in  1917. 

J.  C.  S. 

September,  1921. 


CONTENTS 

Year  Page 

DEDICATION  5 

PREFACE  7 

1918  THE  BIRDS  13 
A  Doc's  DEATH  17 
A  POET  TO  His  MUSE  18 
PROCESSES  OF  THOUGHT  I  19 

II  20 

III  21 

AIRSHIP  OVER  SUBURB  22 

THE  INVOCATION  OF  LUCRETIUS  23 

AN  EPILOGUE:  25 

I  THE  FLUKE  25 

II  THE  CONVERSATION  25 

III  THE  DEAF  ADDER  26 

IV  THE  LANDSCAPE  26 
V  ANOTHER  HOUR  27 

AN  IMPRESSION  RECEIVED  FROM  A  SYMPHONY  28 

FEN  LANDSCAPE  29 

MEDITATION  IN  LAMPLIGHT  30 

HARLEQUIN  32 

1919  WINTER  NIGHTFALL  34 
A  FAR  PLACE  37 
LATE  SNOW  40 
SONG:  You  ARE  MY  SKY  41 
SONG:  THE  HEAVEN  is  FULL  42 
OLD  SONG  43 
EPITAPH  IN  OLD  MODE  44 


THE  MOON  45 

THE  HAPPY  NIGHT  56 

1920  CONSTANTINOPLE  57 
ELEGY  60 
WARS  AND  RUMOURS,  1920  64 

1921  To  A  MUSICIAN  65 
THE  RUGGER  MATCH  69 


POEMS 

SECOND  SERIES 


THE  BIRDS 

(To  Edmund  Gosse) 

WITHIN  mankind's  duration,  so  they  say, 
Khephreri  and  Ninus  lived  but  yesterday. 
Asia  had  no  name  till  man  was  old 
And  long  had  learned  the  use  of  iron  and  gold; 
And  aeons  had  passed,  when  the  first  corn  was  planted, 
Since  first  the  use  of  syllables  was  granted. 

Men  were  on  earth  while  climates  slowly  swung, 
Fanning  wide  zones  to  heat  and  cold,  and  long 
Subsidence  turned  great  continents  to  sea, 
And  seas  dried  up,  dried  up  interminably, 
Age  after  age;  enormous  seas  were  dried 
Amid  wastes  of  land.    And  the  last  monsters  died. 

Earth  wore  another  face.    O  since  that  prime 
Man  with  how  many  works  has  sprinkled  time! 
Hammering,  hewing,  digging  tunnels,  roads; 
Building  ships,  temples,  multiform  abodes. 
How,  for  his  body's  appetites,  his  toils 
Have  conquered  all  earth's  products,  all  her  soils; 
And  in  what  thousand  thousand  shapes  of  art 
He  has  tried  to  find  a  language  for  his  heart! 

[13] 


Never  at  rest,  never  content  or  tired: 

Insatiate  wanderer,  marvellously  fired, 

Most  grandly  piling  and  piling  into  the  air 

Stones  that  will  topple  or  arch  he  knows  not  where. 

And  yet  did  I,  this  spring,  think  it  more  strange, 

More  grand,  more  full  of  awe,  than  all  that  change, 

And  lovely  and  sweet  and  touching  unto  tears, 

That  through  man's  chronicled  and  unchronicled  years, 

And  even  into  that  unguessable  beyond 

The  water-hen  has  nested  by  a  pond, 

Weaving  dry  flags  into  a  beaten  floor, 

The  one  sure  product  of  her  only  lore. 

Low  on  a  ledge  above  the  shadowed  water 

Then,  when  she  heard  no  men,  as  nature  taught  her, 

Plashing  around  with  busy  scarlet  bill 

She  built  that  nest,  her  nest,  and  builds  it  still. 

0  let  your  strong  imagination  turn 

The  great  wheel  backward,  until  Troy  unburn, 

And  then  unbuild,  and  seven  Troys  below 

Rise  out  of  death,  and  dwindle,  and  outflow, 

Till  all  have  passed,  and  none  has  yet  been  there: 

Back,  ever  back.    Our  birds  still  crossed  the  air; 

Beyond  our  myriad  changing  generations 

Still  built,  unchanged,  their  known  inhabitations, 

A  million  years  before  Atlantis  was 

Our  lark  sprang  from  some  hollow  in  the  grass, 

Some  old  soft  hoof-print  in  a  tussock's  shade; 

And  the  wood-pigeon's  smooth  snow-white  eggs  were  laid, 

High  amid  green  pines'  sunset-coloured  shafts, 

And  rooks  their  villages  of  twiggy  rafts 

Set  on  the  tops  of  elms,  where  elms  grew  then, 

And  still  the  thumbling  tit  and  perky  wren 

[14] 


Popped  through  the  tiny  doors  of  cosy  balls 

And  the  blackbird  lined  with  moss  his  high-built  walls; 

A  round  mud  cottage  held  the  thrush's  young, 

And  straws  from  the  untidy  sparrow's  hung. 

And,  skimming  forktailed  in  the  evening  air, 

When  man  first  was  were  not  the  martins  there? 

Did  not  those  birds  some  human  shelter  crave, 

And  stow  beneath  the  cornice  of  his  cave 

Their  dry  tight  cups  of  clay?    And  from  each  door 

Peeped  on  a  morning  wiseheads  three  or  four. 

Yes,  daw  and  owl,  curlew  and  crested  hern, 
Kingfisher,  mallard,  water-rail  and  tern, 
Chaffinch  and  greenfinch,  wagtail,  stonechat,  ruff, 
Whitethroat  and  robin,  fly-catcher  and  chough, 
Missel-thrush,  magpie,  sparrow-hawk  and  jay, 
Built,  those  far  ages  gone,  in  this  year's  way. 
And  the  first  man  who  walked  the  cliffs  of  Rame, 
As  I  this  year,  looked  down  and  saw  the  same 
Blotches  of  rusty  red  on  ledge  and  cleft 
With  grey-green  spots  on  them,  while  right  and  left 
A  dizzying  tangle  of  gulls  were  floating  and  flying, 
Wheeling  and  crossing  and  darting,  crying  and  crying, 
Circling  and  crying,  over  and  over  and  over, 
Crying  with  swoop  and  hover  and  fall  and  recover. 
And  below  on  a  rock  against  the  grey  sea  fretted, 
Pipe-necked  and  stationary  and  silhouetted, 
Cormorants  stood  in  a  wise,  black,  equal  row 
Above  the  nests  and  long  blue  eggs  we  know. 

O  delicate  chain  over  all  the  ages  stretched, 
0  dumb  tradition  from  what  far  darkness  fetched : 
Each  little  architect  with  its  one  design 
Perpetual,  fixed  and  right  in  stuff  and  line, 

[15] 


Each  little  ministrant  who  knows  one  thing, 
One  learned  rite  to  celebrate  the  spring. 
Whatever  alters  else  on  sea  or  shore, 
These  are  unchanging :  man  must  still  explore. 


[16] 


A  DOG'S  DEATH 

THE   loose   earth   falls   in  the   grave  like  a   peaceful 
regular  breathing; 
Too  like,  for  I  was  deceived  a  moment  by  the  sound: 
It  has  covered  the  heap  of  bracken  that  the  gardener  laid 

above  him, 
Quiet  the  spade  swings:  there  we  have  now  his  mound. 

A  patch  of  fresh  earth  on  the  floor  of  the  wood's  renewing 

chamber : 
All  around  is  grass  and  moss  and  the  hyacinth's  dark  green 

sprouts : 
And  oaks  are  above  that  were  old  when  his  fiftieth  sire  was 

a  puppy: 
And  far  away  in  the  garden  I  hear  the  children's  shouts. 

Their  joy  is  remote  as  a  dream.     It  is  strange  how  we  buy 

our  sorrow 

For  the  touch  of  perishing  things,  idly,  with  open  eyes; 
How  we  give  our  hearts  to  brutes  that  will  die  in  a  few  seasons, 
Nor  trouble  what  we  do  when  we  do  it;  nor  would  have  it 
otherwise. 


[17] 


A  POET  TO  HIS  MUSE 

"M    ^"USE,  you  have  opened  like  a  flower. 

"^  Long  ago  I  knew  that  brown  integument, 

Like  a  dead  husk,  had  dormant  life  within  it, 

And  waited  till  a  first  white  point  appeared 

Which  shot  into  a  naked  stiff  pale  spike 

That  grew. 

I  knew  this  was  not  all; 

Nothing  I  said  as  greener  you  grew  and  taller, 

But  dreamed  alone  of  the  day  when  your  bud  would  unsheathe, 

And  silently  swell,  and  at  last  your  crown  would  break 

Filling  the  air  with  clouds  of  colour  and  fragrance, 

Radiant  waves,  odours  of  immortality. 

In  a  pot  of  earth  I  watered  and  tended  you, 

Breaking  the  clods  and  soaking  the  earth  with  water 

That  fed  your  roots  and  eased  your  way  to  the  light. 

I  gave  you  the  sun  and  the  rain 

But  saved  you  from  scorching  and  drowning : 

You  are  mine,  and  only  I  know  you, 

And  the  ways  of  your  growth,  and  the  days. 

......  B 

But  you  are  not  from  me. 

I  am  but  a  pen  for  a  hand, 

A  bed  for  a  river, 

A  window  for  light. 

And  I  bow  in  awe  to  that  Power 

That  made  you  a  flower. 

[18] 


PROCESSES  OF  THOUGHT 


I 


FIND  my  mind  as  it  were  a  deep  water. 


Sometimes  I   play   with  a   thought  and   hammer  and 

bend   it, 

Till  tired  and  displeased  with  that  I  toss  it  away, 
Or  absently  let  it  slip  to  the  yawning  water: 
And  down  it  sinks,  forgotten  for  many  a  day. 

But  a  time  comes  when  tide  or  tempest  washes  it 
High  on  the  beach,  and  I  find  that  shape  of  mine, 
Or  I  haul  it  out  from  the  depths  on  some  casual  rope, 
Or,  passing  over  that  spot  in  quiet  shine, 

I  see,  where  my  boat's  shadow  makes  deep  the  water, 
A  patch  of  colour,  far  down,  from  the  bottom  apart, 
A  wavering  sign  like  the  gleam  from  an  ancient  anchor, 
Brown  fixing  and  fleeting  flakes;  and  I  feel  my  heart 

Wake  to  a  strange  excitement ;  so  that  I  stop, 
Put  up  my  paddles  and  dredge  with  a  careful  net: 
And  I  catch  it,  and  see  it  stir,  and  feel  its  weight, 
And  pull  till  it  nears  and  breaks  from  the  water  wet. 

And  my  eyes  dwell  on  that  old  abandoned  thing 
Recovered  by  chance.    For  the  shape  I  had  found  so  dull 

[19] 


Has  crusted  and  changed  in  secrecy  and  silence, 
And  its  surface  shines  like  a  pearl,  most  beautiful. 

II 

In  bed  I  lie,  and  my  thoughts  come  filing  by, 
All  forms  and  faces,  cheerful,  serene  and  sad: 
Some  clear,  some  mistily  showing  and  fragmentary, 
Some  altered  in  size  or  shape  since  last  they  were  seen. 

But  0  last,  you  group  of  merry  ones! 

Lord  knows  when  I  saw  you  before,  but  I  met  you  once, 

The  whole  collection  of  you,  impudent-eyed; 

And  now,  rosy  and  grinning,  with  linked  arms 

You  go  swingingly  by,  turning  your  faces  to  mine, 

I  laugh  aloud;  you  bad  lots;  you  are  a  secret, 

That  nobody  else  knows. 

And  you  it  was  that  made  me  break  the  procession 

(While  memory  gave  me  still  the  power  of  summons), 

And  call  up  all  I  could  of  a  half -hour's  thoughts 

To  parade  them  across  this  proscenium  of  my  skull 

In  the  order  they  came  in,  more  carefully  recognising 

The  old,  and  remarking  which  have  developed  or  changed. 

And  as  for  you,  you  rogues,  I  am  almost  certain 

There  are  one  or  two  more  of  you  now  than  once  there  were. 

Good-bye!    Good-bye!    Dance  through  the  dark  door 

In  to  the  life  that  somewhere  else  you  lead. 

And  one  day  I  shall  all  unwittingly  call 

Some  word  you  know  as  a  signal,  or  you'll  see 

Someone  else  coming  my  way;  you'll  suddenly  follow, 

And  you'll  appear  again,  quite  possibly 

Bringing  new  friends — who  are  sure  to  be  just  as  bad. 

[20] 


Ill 

Into  the  pits  of  my  heart  and  brain, 

My  eyes,  ears,  nose,  tongue,  fingers,  like  five  gardeners 

Are  shovelling  sights,  sounds,  odours,  savours,  contacts, 

While  I,  their  master,  casually  nod,  and  most  times 

Stand  idly  by,  looking  at  something  else, 

Forgetting  that  the  work  is  going  on 

And  only  fully  conscious  of  my  servants 

When  something  they  move  is  consonant  with  my  mood 

And  draws  my  notice;  or  some  other  thing, 

More  strange  than  usual  or  stronger  in  its  impact 

Makes  them  exclaim  and  call  to  bid  me  watch. 

And  then  in  a  ground  of  more  than  our  dimensions 
Those  quietly  flowing  cascades  of  things  are  hid. 
They  are  buried  in  those  illimitable  fields, 
And  ever  as  they  are  swallowed  by  the  earth 
The  steady  hours  passing  in  procession 
Walk  over  them  and  trample  them  well  down 
Out  of  sight,  levelling  all  the  soil. 

Then  some  time  my  returning  feet  uncover  them 

(My  slaves  are  all  agog  with  recognition) 

Or  else  perhaps  I  come  and  idly  dig 

To  see  what  thing  I  can  find,  and  out  there  comes 

Some  old  form  buried  twenty  years  ago 

Now  called  a  memory. 

Or  marking  well  the  place  where  one  was  put 

Find  it  more  and  more,  drawn  thither  under  the  ground, 

Tangled  with  others  as  flower-roots  with  roots 

Into  a  new  festoon,  or  one  old  image, 

Wearing  others  like  gems.    And  that's  creation. 

121] 


AIRSHIP  OVER  SUBURB 

A     SMOOTH  blue  sky  with  puffed  motionless  clouds. 

"^  Standing  over  the  plain  of  red  roofs  and  bushy  trees 

The  bright  coloured  shell  of  the  large  enamelled  sky. 

Out  of  the  distance  pointing,  a  cut  dark  shape 
That  moves  this  way  at  leisure,  then  hesitates  and  turns: 
And  its  darkness  suddenly  dies  as  it  turns  and  shows 
A  gleaming  silver,  white  against  even  the  whitest  cloud. 

Across  the  blue  and  the  low  small  clouds  it  moves 
Level,  with  a  floating  cloud-like  motion  of  its  own, 
Peaceful,  sunny  and  slow,  a  thing  of  summer  itself, 
Above  the  basking  earth,  travelling  the  clouds  and  the  sky. 


[221 


THE  INVOCATION  OF  LUCRETIUS 

BOOK  I 

MOTHER  of  Rome,  delight  of  gods  and  men, 
Beloved  Venus,  who  under  the  fleeting  stars 
Fillest  the  freighted  sea  and  earth's  ripe  fields, 
0  since  through  thee  alone  all  forms  of  life 
Are  born,  and  climb  into  the  sun's  sweet  light, 
Goddess,  before  whose  lovely  advancing  feet 
The  winds  and  towering  clouds  scatter  and  flee, 
And  the  labouring  earth  discloses  odorous  flowers, 
And  the  sea  falls  into  a  shining  calm, 
And  the  assuaged  heavens  mellow  with  light, 
For  when  the  spring-like  face  of  day  awakes, 
And  the  West  Wind,  unloosed,  flies  procreant  forth, 
Then  first  the  coursing  birds,  smitten  at  heart, 
Betray,  Lady,  thy  entrance  and  thy  power, 
And  then  the  beasts  caper  in  happy  pastures 
And  swim  swift  floods;  so  all  created  things, 
Captive  to  thee,  drawn  by  their  own  desire, 
Stray  through  the  world  where'er  thy  presence  leads. 
Through  all  the  seas  and  hills  and  swelling  streams, 
Wing-fluttering  woods  and  green,  luxuriant  plains, 
Thou  harryest  them  with  lust,  that  none  shall  fail 
To  carry  their  eternal  races  on. 

[23] 


Since  then  thou  art  sole  queen  of  all  that  Is, 
And  without  thee  to  help  can  nothing  rise 
To  cross  the  glorious  frontiers  of  the  light, 
And  nothing  grow  in  gentleness  or  grace, 
Thee  do  I  pray  to  aid  my  labouring  verse, 
Now  that  of  all  that  Is  I  strive  to  sing, 
Lady,  for  my  dear  Memmian  heir,  whom  thou 
Hast  blest  with  every  constant  excellence; 
For  his  sake,  chiefly,  fill  my  words  with  life. 


124] 


AN  EPILOGUE 

L      THE  FLUKE 

FOR  two  years  you  went 
Through  all  the  worst  of  it, 
Men  fell  around  you,  but  you  did  not  fall. 
On  the  Somme  when  the  air  was  a  sea 
Of  contesting  flashes  and  clouds  of  smoke, 
Your  gunners  fell  fast  but  you  got  never  a  scratch. 
And  once  when  you  watched  from  a  village  tower 
(At  Longueval,  was  it?)  between  our  guns  and  theirs 
As  men  fought  in  the  houses  below, 
A  shell  from  an  English  battery  came 
And  tore  a  hole  in  the  tower  below  you, 
But  you  were  not  hurt  and  remained  observing. 

And  now, 

A  casual  shell  has  come 

And  pierced  your  head, 

And  the  men  who  were  with  you,  uninjured, 

Carried  you  back, 

And  you  died  on  the  way. 

II.   THE   CONVERSATION 

When  we've  greeted  each  other  again, 

And  you've  filled  your  pipe  and  sat  down  and  stretched  your 

legs, 
You  will  look  in  the  fire  for  a  minute 

[25] 


And  then  you  will  say,  with  a  yawn, 

"Well,  when  do  you  think  this  damned  war  will  be  over?" 

And  I  shall  say  nothing,  or  something  as  empty  as  nothing. 

But  I  am  forgetting. 

We  shall  not  greet  each  other  again; 

You  will  not  ask  that  question  again. 

in.  THE  DEAF  ADDER 

Well,  it's  no  good  brooding. 

The  past  cannot  return. 

They  have  killed  him  and  buried  him. 

Many  men  as  good  as  he  have  gone: 

They  were  good  men  even  if  one  never  knew  them. 

It  is  a  just  and  honourable  war. 

He  went  in  readily  at  the  start,  though  he  hated  it, 

And  one  would  not  have  had  him  do  otherwise. 

And,  thank  God,  he  did  the  job  well 

That  had  to  be  done. 

He  has  suffered  with  millions  of  others 

For  the  sake  of  the  future's  peace, 

And  ungrudgingly  laid  down  his  life 

In  the  cleanest  of  England's  wars. 

There  is  no  room  for  regret  here,  only  for  pride. 

•  •••••• 

Heart,  you  fool,  lie  down. 

Cannot  you   hear 

My  excellent  reasoning? 

IV.   THE  LANDSCAPE 

You  said,  that  first  winter, 

That  the  landscape  around  Ypres 

Reminded  you  of  Chinese  paintings: 

[26] 


The  green  plain,  striped  with  trenches, 

The  few  trees  on  the  plain, 

And  the  puffs  of  smoke  sprinkled  over  the  plain. 

You  said,  when  the  war  was  over, 

That  you  would  record  that  green  desolation 

In  flat  colours  and  lines 

As  a  Chinese  artist  would. 

That  is  what  you  were  going  to  do. 

The  plain  is  still  there. 

V.  ANOTHER  HOUR 

How  many  days  we  spent  together! 

Thousands. 

And  now  I  would  give  anything, 

Anything, 

For  another,  or  even  for  one  hour: 

An  hour,  were  it  only  of  aimless  lounging, 

Or  a  game  of  billiards  in  a  pub. 


[27] 


AN  IMPRESSION  RECEIVED  FROM  A  SYMPHONY 

THERE  was  a  day,  when  I,  if  that  was  I, 
Surrendered  lay  beneath  a  burning  sky, 
Where  overhead  the  azure  ached  with  heat, 
And  many  red  fierce  poppies  splashed  the  wheat; 
Motion  was  dead,  and  silence  was  complete, 
And  stains  of  red  fierce  poppies  splashed  the  wheat, 

And  as  I  lay  upon  a  scent-warm  bank, 

I  fell  away,  slipped  back  from  earth,  and  sank, 

I  lost  the  place  of  sky  and  field  and  tree, 

One  covering  face  obscured  the  world  for  me, 

And  for  an  hour  I  knew  eternity 

For  one  fixed  face  suspended  Time  for  me. 

0  had  those  eyes  in  that  extreme  of  bliss 
Shed  one  more  wise  and  culminating  kiss, 
My  end  had  come,  nor  had  I  lived  to  quail 
Frightened  and  dumb  as  things  must  do  that  fail, 
And  in  this  last  black  devil-mocking  gale, 
Battered  and  dumb  to  fight  the  dark  and  fail 


[28} 


FEN  LANDSCAPE 


[29] 


WND  waves  the  reeds  by  the  river, 
Grey  sky  lids  the  leaden  water, 
Ducks  fly  low  across  the  water, 
Three  flying:  one  quacks  sadly. 

Grey  are  the  sky  and  the  water, 
Green  the  lost  ribbons  of  reed-beds, 
Small  in  the  silence  a  black  boat 
Floats  upon  wide  pale  mirrors. 


MEDITATION  IN  LAMPLIGHT 

~T"T  THAT  deaths  men  have  died,  not  fighting  but  impotent. 
V/\/     Hung  on  the  wire,  between  trenches,  burning  and 

freezing, 

Groaning  for  water  with  armies  of  men  so  near; 
The  fall  over  cliff,  the  clutch  at  the  rootless  grass, 
The  beach  rushing  up,  the  whirling,  the  turning  head  first; 
Stiff  writhings  of  strychnine,  taken  in  error  or  haste, 
Angina  pectoris,  shudders  of  the  heart; 
Failure  and  crushing  by  flying  weight  to  the  ground, 
Claws  and  jaws,  the  stink  of  a  lion's  breath; 
Swimming,  a  white  belly,  a  crescent  of  teeth, 
Agony,  and  a  spirting  shredded  limb 
And  crimson  blood  staining  the  green  water; 
And,  horror  of  horrors,  the  slow  grind  on  the  rack, 
The  breaking  bones,  the  stretching  and  bursting  skin, 
Perpetual  fainting  and  waking  to  see  above 
The  down-thrust  mocking  faces  of  cruel  men, 
With  the  power  of  mercy,  who  gloat  upon  shrieks  for  mercy. 

0  pity  me,  God!     O  God  make  tolerable, 

Make  tolerable  the  end  that  awaits  for  me, 

And  give  me  courage  to  die  when  the  time  comes, 

When  the  time  comes  as  it  must,  however  it  comes, 

That  I  shrink  not  nor  scream,  gripped  by  the  jaws  of  the  vice; 

For  the  thought  of  it  turns  me  sick,  and  my  heart  stands  still, 

Knocks  and  stands  still.    0  fearful,  fearful  Shadow 

Kill  me,  let  me  die  to  escape  the  terror  of  thee! 

[30] 


A  tap.    Come  in !    Oh,  no,  I  am  perfectly  well, 

Only  a  little  tired.    Take  this  one,  it's  softer. 

How  are  things  going  with  you?    Will  you  have  some  coffee? 

Well,  of  course  it's  trying  sometimes,  but  never  mind, 

It  will  probably  be  all  right.    Carry  on,  and  keep  cheerful, 

I  shouldn't,  if  I  were  you,  meet  trouble  half-way, 

It  is  always  best  to  take  everything  as  it  comes. 


[31] 


HARLEQUIN 

MOONLIT  woodland,  veils  of  green, 
Caves  of  empty  dark  between; 
Veils  of  green  from  rounded  arms 
Drooping,  that  the  moonlight  charms. 
Tranced  the  trees,  grass  beneath 
Silent.  .  .  . 

lake  a  stealthy  breath, 
Mask  and  wand  and  silver  skin, 
Sudden  enters  Harlequin. 

Hist!  Hist!  Watch  him  go, 
Leaping  limb  and  pointing  toe, 
Slender  arms  that  float  and  flow, 
Curving  wand  above,  below; 
Flying,  gliding,  changing  feet; 
Onset  fading  in  retreat. 
Not  a  shadow  of  sound  there  is 
But  his  motion's  gentle  hiss, 
Till  one  fluent  arm  and  hand 
Suddenly  circles,  and  the  wand 
Taps  a  bough  far  overhead, 
"Crack,"  and  then  all  noise  is  dead. 
For  he  halts,  and  a  space 
Stands  erect  with  upward  face, 
Taut  and  tense  to  the  white 
Message  of  the  moon's  light. 

[32] 


What  is  he  thinking  of,  you  ask; 
Caught  you  the  eyes  behind  the  mask? 
Whence  did  he  come,  where  would  he  go? 
Answers  but  the  resuming  flow 
Of  that  swift  continuous  glide, 
Whispering  from  side  to  side, 
Silvered  boughs,  branches  dim, 
All  the  world's  a  frame  for  him; 
All  the  trees  standing  around 
On  the  fascinated  ground, 
See  him  swifter,  swifter,  sweep, 
Dazzling,  till  one  wildest  leap  .  .  . 
Whisht!  he  kneels.     And  he  listens. 
How  his  steady  silver  glistens! 

He  was  listening;  he  was  there; 
Flash !  he  went.    To  the  air 
He  a  waiting  ear  had  bent, 
Silent;  but  before  he  went 
Something  somewhere  else  to  seek, 
He  moved  his  lips  as  though  to  speak. 

And  we  wait,  and  in  vain, 
For  he  will  not  come  again. 
Earth,  grass,  wood,  and  air, 
As  we  stare,  and  we  stare, 
Which  that  fierce  life  did  hold, 
Tired,  dim,  void,  cold. 


[33] 


WINTER  NIGHTFALL 

THE  old  yellow  stucco 
Of  the  time  of  the  Regent 
Is  flaking  and  peeling: 
The  rows  of  square  windows 
In  the  straight  yellow  building 

Are  empty  and  still; 
And  the  dusty  dark  evergreens 
Guarding  the  wicket 
Are  draped  with  wet  cobwebs, 
And  above  this  poor  wilderness 
Toneless  and  sombre 
Is  the  flat  of  the  hill. 

They  said  that  a  colonel 
Who  long  ago  died  here 
Was  the  last  one  to  live  here: 
An  old  retired  colonel, 
Some  Fraser  or  Murray, 

I  don't  know  his  name; 
Death  came  here  and  summoned  him, 
And  the  shells  of  him  vanished 
Beyond  all  speculation; 
And  silence  resumed  here, 
Silence  and  emptiness, 

And  nobody  came. 

134] 


Was  it  wet  when  he  lived  here, 
Were  the  skies  dun  and  hurrying, 
Was  the  rain  so  irresolute? 
Did  he  watch  the  night  coming, 
Did  he  shiver  at  nightfall 

Before  he  was  dead? 
Did  the  wind  go  so  creepily, 
Chilly  and  puffing, 
With  drops  of  cold  rain  in  it? 
Was  the  hill's  lifted  shoulder 
So  lowering  and  menacing, 

So  dark  and  so  dread? 

Did  he  turn  through  his  doorway 
And  go  to  his  study, 
And  light  many  candles? 
And  fold  in  the  shutters, 
And  heap  up  the  fireplace 

To  fight  off  the  damps? 
And  muse  on  his  boyhood, 
And  wonder  if  India 
Ever  was  real? 
And  shut  out  the  loneliness 
With  pig-sticking  memoirs 

And  collections  of  stamps? 

Perhaps.    But  he's  gone  now, 
He  and  his  furniture 
Dispersed  now  for  ever; 
And  the  last  of  his  trophies, 
Antlers  and  photographs, 

Heaven  knows  where. 
And  there's  grass  in  his  gateway, 
Grass  on  his  footpath, 


[35] 


Grass  on  his  door-step; 
The  garden's  grown  over, 
The  well-chain  is  broken, 
The  windows  are  bare. 

And  I  leave  him  behind  me, 
For  the  straggling,  discoloured 
Rags  of  the  daylight, 
And  hills  and  stone  walls 
And  a  rick  long  forgotten 

Of  blackening  hay; 
The  road  pale  and  sticky, 
And  cart-ruts  and  nail  marks, 
And  wind-ruffled  puddles, 
And  the  slop  of  my  footsteps 
In  this  desolate  country's 

Cadaverous  clay. 


[36] 


A  FAR  PLACE 

SHELTERED,  when  the  rain  blew  over  the  hills  it  was, 
Sunny  all  day  when  the  days  of  summer  were  long, 
Beyond  all  rumour  of  labouring  towns  it  was, 
But  at  dawn  and  evening  its  trees  were  noisy  with  song. 

There  were  four  elms  on  the  southward  lawn  standing, 
Their  great  trunks  evenly  set  in  a  square 
Of  shadowed  grass  in  spring  pierced  with  crocuses, 
And  their  tops  met  high  in  the  empty  air. 

Where  the  morning  rose  the  grey  church  was  below  us, 
If  we  stood  by  the  porch  we  saw  on  either  hand 
The  ground  falling,  the  trees  falling,  and  meadows, 
A  river,  hamlets  and  spires :  a  chequered  land, 

A  wide  country  where  cloud  shadows  went  chasing 
Mile  after  mile,  diminishing  fast,  until 
They  met  the  far  blue  downs ;  but  round  the  corner 
The  western  garden  lay  lonely  under  the  hill. 

And  closed  in  the  western  garden,  under  the  hillside, 
Where  silence  was  and  the  rest  of  the  world  was  gone, 
We  saw  and  took  the  curving  year's  munificence : 
Changing  from  flower  to  flower  the  garden  shone. 

Early  its  walks  were  fringed  with  little  rock-plants, 
Sprays  and  tufts  of  blossom,  white,  yellow,  and  blue, 
And  all  about  were  sprinkled  stars  of  narcissus, 
And  swathes  of  tulips  all  over  the  garden  grew. 

[37) 


White  groups  and  pink,  red,  crimson  and  lemon-yellow, 
And  the  yellow-and-red-streaked  tulips  once  loved  by  a  boy; 
Red  and  yellow  their  stiff  and  varnished  petals, 
And  the  scent  of  them  stings  me  still  with  a  youthful  joy. 

And  in  the  season  of  perfect  and  frailest  beauty, 
Pear-blossom  broke  and  the  lilacs'  waxen  cones, 
And  a  tranced  laburnum  trailing  its  veils  of  yellow 
Tenderly  drooped  over  the  ivied  stones. 

The  lilacs  browned,  a  breath  dried  the  laburnum, 
The  swollen  peonies  scattered  the  earth  with  blood, 
And  the  rhododendrons  shed  their  sumptuous  mantles, 
And  the  marshalled  irises  unsceptred  stood. 

And  the  borders  filled  with  daisies  and  pied  sweet-williams 
And  busy  pansies;  and  there  as  we  gazed  and  dreamed, 
And  breathed  the  swooning  smell  of  the  packed  carnations, 
The  present  was  always  the  crown  of  all :  it  seemed 

Each  month  more  beautiful  sprang  from  a  robe  discarded, 
The  year  all  effortless  dropt  the  best  away 
And  struck  the  heart  with  loveliness  new,  more  lavish; 
When  the  clambering  rose  had  blown  and  died,  by  day 

The  broad-leaved  tapering  many-shielded  hollyhocks 
Stood  like  pillars  and  shone  to  the  August  sun, 
The  glimmering  cups  of  waking  evening  primroses 
Filled  the  dusk  now  the  scent  of  the  rose  was  done. 

A  wall  there  was  and  a  door  to  the  rose-garden, 

And  out  of  that  a  gate  to  the  orchard  led, 

And  there  was  the  last  hedge,  and  the  turf  sloped  upward 

Till  the  sky  was  cut  by  the  hill's  line  overhead. 

[38] 


And  thither  at  times  we  climbed,  and  far  below  us 
That  world  that  had  made  the  world  remote  was  seen, 
Small,  a  huddle  of  russet  roofs  and  chimneys, 
And  its  guard  of  elms  like  bushes  against  the  green: 

One  spot  in  the  country,  little  and  mild  and  homely, 
The  nearest  house  of  a  wide,  populous  plain.     .     .     . 
But  down  at  evening  under  the  stars  and  the  branches 
In  the  whispering  garden  we  lost  the  world  again. 

Whispering,  faint,  the  garden  under  the  hillside    .    .    . 
Under  the  stars.    .    .    .    Is  it  true  that  we  lived  there  long? 
Was  it  certainly  so?    Did  ever  we  know  that  dwelling, 
Breathe  that  night,  and  hear  in  the  night  that  song? 


[39] 


LATE  SNOW 

THE  heavy  train  through  the  dim  country  went  rolling, 
rolling 
Interminably  passing  misty  snow-covered  plough-land 

ridges 

That  merged  in  the  snowy  sky;  came  turning  meadows,  fences, 
Came  gullies  and  passed,  and  ice-coloured  streams  under  frozen 
bridges. 

Across  the  travelling  landscape  evenly  drooped  and  lifted 
The  telegraph  wires,  thick  ropes  of  snow  in  the  windless  air; 
They  drooped  and  paused  and  lifted  again  to  unseen  summits, 
Drawing  the  eyes  and  soothing  them,  often,  to  a  drowsy  stare. 

Singly  in  the  snow  the  ghosts  of  trees  were  softly  pencilled, 
Fainter   and    fainter,    in    distance    fading,    into    nothingness 

gliding, 

But  sometimes  a  crowd  of  the  intricate  silver  trees  of  fairyland 
Passed,  marvellous  close  and  clear,  the  phantom  world  hiding. 

O   untroubled   these   moving   mantled   miles    of   shadowless 

shadows, 

And  lovely  the  film  of  falling  flakes,  so  wayward  and  slack; 
But  I  thought  of  many  a  mother-bird  screening  her  nestlings, 
Sitting  silent  with  wide  bright  eyes,  snow  on  her  back. 


[40] 


SONG 


YOU  are  my  sky;  beneath  your  circling  kindness 
My  meadows  all  take  in  the  light  and  grow; 
Laugh  with  the  joy  you've  given, 
The  joy  you've  given, 
And  open  in  a  thousand  buds,  and  blow. 

But  when  you  are  sombre,  sad,  averse,  forgetful, 
Heavily  veiled  by  clouds  that  brood  with  rain, 
Dumbly  I  lie  all  shadowed, 
I  lie  all  shadowed, 
And  dumbly  wait  for  you  to  shine  again. 


[41] 


SONG 


[42] 


THE  heaven  is  full  of  the  moon's  light, 
The  earth  fades  below. 
In  this  vast  empty  world  of  night 
I  only  know 

Pale-shining  trees  and  moonlit  fields, 

The  bird's  tune, 
And  my  night-flowering  heart  that  yields 

Her  fragrance  to  the  moon. 


OLD  SONG 

MY  window  is  darkness, 
The  sighs  of  the  night  die  in  silence; 
The  lamp  on  my  table 
Burns  gravely,  the  walls  are  withdrawn; 
And  beneath,  in  your  darkness, 
You  are  sleeping  and  dreaming  forgetful, 
But  I  think  of  you  smiling, 
For  I'm  wakeful  and  now  it  is  only  an  hour  to  the  dawn. 

When  the  first  throb  of  light  comes 
I  shall  rise  and  go  out  to  the  garden, 
And  walk  the  lawn's  verdure 
Before  the  wet  gossamer  goes; 
And  when  you  come  down,  sweet, 
All  singing  and  light  in  the  morning, 
Delight  will  break  ambush 

With  your  garden's  most  fragrant  and  softest  and  reddest  red 
rose. 


[43] 


EPITAPH  IN  OLD  MODE 

THE  leaves  fall  gently  on  the  grass, 
And  all  the  willow  trees,  and  poplar  trees,  and  elder 
trees 

That  bend  above  her  where  she  sleeps, 
O  all  the  willow  trees,  the  willow  trees 
Breathe  sighs  upon  her  tomb. 

O  pause  and  pity,  as  you  pass, 

She  loved  so  tenderly,  so  quietly,  so  hopelessly; 

And  sometimes  comes  one  here  and  weeps: 

She  loved  so  tenderly,  so  tenderly, 

And  never  told  them  whom. 


[44] 


THE  MOON 

(To  Maurice  Baring) 

1   WAITED  for  a  miracle  to-night. 
Dim  was  the  earth  beneath  a  star-swept  sky, 
Her  boughs  were  vague  in  that  phantasmal  light, 
Her  current  rippled  past  invisibly. 
No  stir  was  in  the  dark  and  windless  meadows, 
Only  the  water,  whispering  in  the  shadows, 

That  darkened  nature  lived  did  still  proclaim. 
An  hour  I  stood  in  that  defeat  of  sight, 
Waiting,  and  then  a  sudden  silver  flame 
Burned  in  the  eastern  heaven,  and  she  came. 

The  Moon,  the  Summer  Moon,  surveys  the  vale: 
The  boughs  against  the  dawning  sky  grow  black, 

The  shades  that  hid  those  whispering  waters  fail, 
And  now  there  falls  a  gleaming,  lengthening  track 

That  lies  across  the  wide  and  tranquil  river, 

Burnished  and  flat,  not  shaken  by  a  quiver. 
She  rises  still:  the  liquid  light  she  spills 

Makes  everywhere  quick  sparkles,  patches  pale; 
And,  as  she  goes,  I  know  her  glory  fills 
The  air  of  all  our  English  lakes  and  hills. 

[45] 


High  over  all  this  England  will  she  ride; 

She  silvers  all  the  roofs  of  folded  towns, 
Her  brilliance  tips  the  edge  of  every  tide, 

Her  shadows  make  soft  caverns  in  the  downs; 
Even  now,  beyond  my  tree  serenely  sailing, 
She  clothes  far  forests  with  a  gauzy  veiling, 

And  even  as  here,  where  now  I  stare  and  dream, 
Standing  my  own  transfigured  banks  beside, 

On  many  a  quiet  wandering  English  stream 

There  lies  the  unshifting  image  of  her  beam. 

Yes,  calm  she  mounts,  and  watching  her,  I  know 
By  many  a  river  other  eyes  than  mine 

Turn  up  to  her;  and,  as  of  old,  they  show 
Their  inward  hearts  all  naked  to  her  shine: 

Maids,  solitaries,  sick  and  happy  lovers, 

To  whom  her  dear  returning  orb  discovers 
For  each  the  gift  he  waits  for:  soft  release, 

The  unsealing  of  imagination's  flow, 

Her  own  sweet  pain,  or  other  pain's  surcease, 
The  friendly  benediction  of  her  peace. 

I  too  am  held:  as  kind  she  is,  as  fair, 

As  when  long  since  a  younger  heart  drank  deep 
From  that  sweet  solace,  while,  through  summer  air, 

Her  lucid  fingers  hushed  the  world  to  sleep. 
O  as  I  stand  this  latest  moon  beholding, 
Her  forms  unresting  memory  is  moulding; 

Beneath  my  enchanted  eyelids  there  arise 
Visions  again  of  many  moons  that  were, 

Fair,  fleeting  moons  gathered  from  faded  skies, 

Greeted  and  lost  by  these  corporeal  eyes. 

[46] 


Unnumbered  are  those  moons  of  memory 

Stored  in  the  backward  chambers  of  my  brain: 

The  moons  that  make  bright  pathways  on  the  sea, 
The  golden  harvest  moon  above  the  grain; 

The  moon  that  all  a  sleeping  village  blanches, 

The  woodland  moon  that  roves  beyond  the  branches, 
Filtering  through  the  meshes  of  the  green 

To  breast  of  bird  and  mossy  trunk  of  tree; 

Moons  dimly  guessed-at  through  a  cloudy  screen, 
The  bronze  diffusion  shed  by  moons  unseen; 

Moons  that  a  thin  prismatic  halo  rings, 
Looking  a  hurrying  fleecy  heaven  through; 

The  fairy  moons  of  luminous  evenings, 
Phantoms  of  palest  pink  in  palest  blue; 

Large  orange  moons  on  earth's  grey  verge  suspended, 

When  trees  still  slumber  from  the  heat  that's  ended, 
Erect  and  heavy,  and  all  waters  lie 

Oily,  and  there  is  not  a  bird  that  sings. 

All  these  I  know,  I  have  seen  them  born  and  die, 
And  many  another  moon  in  many  a  sky. 

There  was  a  moon  that  shone  above  the  ground 

Where  on  a  grassy  forest  height  I  stood; 
Bright  was  that  open  place,  and  all  around 

The  dense  discovered  tree-tops  of  the  wood, 
Line  after  line,  in  misty  radiance  glistened, 
Failing  away,  I  watched  the  scene  and  listened; 

Then,  awed  and  hushed,  I  turned  and  saw  alone, 
Protruding  from  the  middle  of  the  mound, 

Fringed  with  close  grass,  a  moonlit  mottled  stone, 

Rough-carven,  of  antiquity  unknown. 

[47] 


A  night  there  was,  a  crowd,  a  narrow  street, 

Torches  that  reddened  faces  drunk  with  dreams, 
An  orator  exultant  in  defeat, 

Banners,  fierce  songs,  rough  cheering,  women's  screams; 
My  heart  was  one  with  those  rebellious  people, 
Until  along  a  chapel's  pointing  steeple 

My  eyes  unwitting  wandered  to  a  thin 
Crescent,  and  clouds  a  swift  and  ragged  sheet; 

And  in  my  spirit's  life  all  human  din 

Died,  and  eternal  Silence  stood  within. 

And  once,  on  a  far  evening,  warm  and  still, 

I  leant  upon  a  cool  stone  parapet. 
The  quays  and  houses  underneath  the  hill 

Twinkled  with  lights;  I  heard  the  sea's  faint  fret; 
And  then  above  the  eastern  cape's  long  billow 
Silent  there  welled  a  trembling  line  of  yellow, 

A  shred  that  quickened,  then  a  half  that  grew 
To  a  full  moon,  that  moved  with  even  will. 

The  night  was  long  before  her,  well  she  knew, 

And,  as  she  slowly  rose  into  the  blue, 

She  slowly  paled,  and,  glittering  far  away, 

Flung  on  the  silken  waters  like  a  spear, 
Her  crisped  silver  shaft  of  moonlight  lay. 

The  lighthouse  lamp  upon  the  little  pier 
Burned  wanly  by  that  radiance  clear  and  certain. 
Waiting  I  knew  not  what  uplifted  curtain, 

I  watched  the  unmoving  world  beneath  my  feet 
Till,  without  warning,  miles  across  the  bay, 

Into  that  silver  out  of  shadows  beat, 

Dead  black,  the  whole  mysterious  fishing-fleet. 

[48] 


These  moons  I  have  seen,  but  these  and  every  one 
Came  each  so  new  it  seemed  to  be  the  first, 

New  as  the  buds  that  open  to  the  sun, 

New  as  the  songs  that  to  the  morning  burst. 

The  roses  die,  each  day  fresh  flowers  are  springing, 

Last  year  it  was  another  blackbird  singing, 

Thou  only,  marvellous  blossom,  whose  pale  flower 

Beyond  mankind's  conjecture  hath  begun, 
Retain'st  for  ever  an  un  wither  ing  power 
That  stales  the  loveliest  stranger  of  an  hour. 

But  O,  had  all  my  infant  nights  been  dark. 

Or  almost  dark,  lit  by  the  stars  alone, 
Had  never  a  teller  of  stories  bid  me  hark 

The  promised  splendours  of  that  moon  unknown: 
How  perfect  then  had  been  the  revelation 
When  first  her  gradual  gold  illumination 

Broke  on  a  night  upon  the  conscious  child: 
My  heart  had  stopped  with  beauty,  seeing  her  arc 

Climbing  the  heavens,  so  far  and  undefiled 

So  large  with  light,  so  even  and  so  mild. 

Most  wondrous  Light,  who  bring'st  this  lovelier  earth, 
This  world  of  shadows  cool  with  silver  fires, 

Drawing  us  higher  than  our  human  birth: 

To  whom  our  strange  twin-natured  kind  suspires 

Its  saddest  thoughts,  and  tenderest  and  most  fragrant 

Tears,  and  desires  unnameable  and  vagrant: 
Watcher,  who  leanest  quietly  from  above, 

Saying  all  mortal  wars  are  nothing  worth: 
Friend  of  the  sorrowful,  tranquil  as  the  dove, 
Muse  of  all  poets,  lamp  of  all  who  love. 

[49] 


Alone  and  sad,  alone  and  kind  and  sweet, 

But  always  peaceful  and  removed  and  proud, 
Whether  with  loveliness  revealed  complete, 

Or  veiling  from  our  vision  in  a  cloud: 
Our  souls'  eternal  listener,  could  we  wonder 
That  men  who  made  of  sun  and  storm  and  thunder 

The  awful  forms  of  strong  divinity, 
Heard  in  each  storm  the  noise  of  travelling  feet, 

Should,  gazing  at  thy  face  with  hearts  made  free, 

Have  felt  a  pure,  immortal  Power  in  thee? 

Selene,  Cynthia,  and  Artemis, 

The  swift  proud  goddess  with  the  silver  bow, 
Diana,  she  whose  downward-bending  kiss 

One  only  knew,  though  all  men  yearned  to  know; 
The  shepherd  on  a  hill  his  flock  was  keeping, 
The  night's  pale  huntress  came  and  found  him  sleeping: 

She  stooped:  he  woke,  and  saw  her  hair  that  shone, 
And  lay,  drawn  up  to  cool  and  timeless  bliss 

Lapt  in  her  radiant  arms,  Endymion, 

All  the  still  night,  until  the  night  was  gone. 

By  many  names  they  knew  thee,  but  thy  shape 

Was  woman's  always,  transient  and  white: 
A  flashing  huntress  leaving  hinds  agape, 

A  sweet  descent  of  beauty  in  the  night: 
Yet  some,  more  fierce  and  more  distraught  their  dreaming, 
Brooded,  until  they  fashioned  from  thy  seeming, 

A  lithe  and  luring  queen  with  fatal  breath, 
A  witch  the  man  who  saw  might  not  escape, 

A  snare  that  gleamed  in  shadowy  groves  of  death, 

The  tall  tiaraed  Syrian  Ashtoreth. 

[50] 


And  even  to-night  in  African  forests  some 
There  are,  possessed  by  such  a  blasphemy; 

Through  branching  beams  thy  fevered  votaries  come 
To  appease  their  brains'  distorted  mask  of  thee. 

There  in  the  glades  the  drums  pulsate  and  languish, 

Men  leap  and  wail  to  dim  the  victim's  anguish 
In  the  sad  frenzy  of  the  sacrifice. 

They  are  slaves  to  thee,  made  mad  because  thou  art  dumb, 
And  dumb  thou  lookest  on  them  from  the  skies, 
Above  their  fires  and  dances,  blood  and  cries. 

So  these;  but  otherwhere,  at  such  an  hour, 

In  all  the  continents,  by  all  the  seas, 
Men,  naming  not  the  goddess,  feel  thy  power, 

Adoring  her  with  gentler  rites  than  these: 
The  thoughts  of  myriad  hearts  to  thee  uplifted 
Rise  like  a  smoke  above  thine  altars  drifted, 

Perpetual  incense  poured  before  thy  throne 
By  those  whom  thou  hast  given  thy  secret  dower, 

Those  in  whose  kindred  eyes  thy  light  is  known, 

Whom  thou  hast  signed  and  sealed  for  thine  own. 

For  thee  they  watch  by  Asian  peaks  remote, 

Where  thy  snows  gleam  above  the  pointing  pines; 
Entranced  on  templed  lakes  is  many  a  boat 

For  thee,  where  clear  thy  dropt  reflection  shines; 
On  the  great  seas  where  none  but  thou  is  tender 
Rising  and  setting,  unto  thee  surrender 

All  lonely  hearts  in  lonely  wandering  ships; 
And,  where  their  warm  far-scattered  islands  float, 

Through  forests  many  a  flower-crowned  maiden  slips 

To  gaze  on  thee,  with  parted  burning  lips. 

[51] 


O  thus  they  do,  and  thus  they  did  of  old; 

Our  hearts  were  never  secret  in  thy  sight; 
Ere  our  first  records  were  thy  shrine  was  cold 

That  speechless  eyes  went  seeking  in  the  night; 
Beyond  the  compass  of  our  dim  traditions 
Thou  knewest  of  men  the  pitiful  ambitions, 

Their  loves  and  their  despair;  within  thy  ken 
All  our  poor  history  has  been  unrolled; 

Thou  hast  seen  all  races  born  and  die  again, 

The  climbing  and  the  crumbling  towers  of  men. 

Black  were  the  hollows  of  that  Emperor's  eyes 
Who  paced  with  backward  arms  beyond  his  tents, 

Lone  in  the  night,  and  felt  above  him  rise 

The  ancient  conqueror's  sloping,  smooth,  immense, 

Moon-pointing  Pyramid's  enduring  courses, 

Heard  not  his  sentries,  nor  his  stamping  horses, 
But  thought  of  Egypt  dead  upon  that  air, 

Fighting  with  his  moon-coloured  memories 
Of  vanished  kings  who  builded,  and  the  bare 
Sands  in  the  moon  before  those  builders  were. 

Restless,  he  knew  that  moon  who  watched  him  muse, 
Had  seen  a  restless  Caesar  brood  on  fame 

Amid  the  Pharaohs'  broken  avenues. 

And,  circling  round  that  fixed  monition,  came 

Woven  by  moonlight,  random,  transitory, 

Fragments  of  all  the  dim  receding  story: 
The  moonlit  water  dripping  from  the  oars 

Of  triremes  in  the  bay  of  Syracuse; 

The  opposing  bivouacs  upon  the  shores, 
That  knew  dead  Hector's  and  Achilles'  wars. 

[52] 


He  saw  fall'n  Carthage,  Alexander's  grave, 

The  tomb  of  Moses  in  the  wilderness, 
The  moonlight  on  the  Atlantean  wave 

That  covered  all  a  multitude's  distress: 
Cities  and  hosts  and  emperors  departed 
Under  the  steady  moon.     And  sullen-hearted 

He  turned  away,  and,  in  a  little,  died, 
Even  as  he  who  hunted  from  his  cave 

And  struck  his  foe,  and  stripped  the  shaggy  hide 

Under  the  moon,  and  was  not  satisfied. 

For  in  the  prime,  thy  influence  was  felt; 

When  eyes  first  saw,  thy  beauty  was  as  this; 
Thy  quiet  look  bade  hope,  fear,  passion  melt 

Before  men  dreamed  of  empire.     The  abyss 
Of  thought  yawned  through  their  jungle  then,  as  ever 
Dark  past,  dark  future,  menaced  their  endeavour: 

Yet,  on  thy  nights,  stood  some  by  hill  and  sea 
Naked;  and  blind  impulsive  spirits  knelt, 

Not  questioning  why  they  knelt,  feeling  in  thee 

Thought's  strangest,  sweetest,  saddest  mystery. 

Still  Moon,  bright  Moon,  compassionate  Moon  above, 

Thou  shinedst  there  ere  any  life  began, 
When  of  his  pain  or  of  his  powerless  love 

Thou  heardest  not  from  heart  of  any  man; 
Though  long  the  earth  had  shaken  off  the  vapour 
Left  by  the  vanished  gleams  of  fire,  the  shaper, 

Old,  old,  her  stony  wrinkled  face  did  grow 
Whilst  only  her  blind  elements  did  move; 

Dumb,  bare,  and  prayerless  thou  saw'st  her  go, 

And  afterwards  again  shalt  see  her  so. 

[53] 


A  time  there  was  when  Life  had  never  been, 
A  time  will  be,  it  will  have  passed  away; 

Still  wilt  thou  shine,  still  tender  and  serene, 
When  Life  which  in  thy  sister's  yesterday 

Had  never  flowered,  will  have  drooped  and  faded; 

Passed  with  the  clouds  that  once  her  bosom  shaded. 
She  will  be  barren  then  as  not  before, 

Bared  of  her  snows  and  all  her  garments  green; 
No  darkling  sea  by  any  earthly  shore 
Will  take  thy  rays:  thy  kin  will  be  no  more. 

Pale  satellite,  old  mistress  of  our  fires, 

Who  hast  seen  so  much  and  been  so  much  to  men, 
Symbol  and  goal  of  all  our  wild  desires, 

Not  any  voice  will  cry  upon  thee  then; 
Dreamer  and  dream,  they  will  have  all  gone  over, 
The  sick  of  heart,  the  singer  and  the  lover, 

An  end  there  will  have  been  to  all  their  lust, 
Their  sorrow,  and  the  sighing  of  their  lyres; 

0  all  this  Life  that  stained  Earth's  patient  crust, 

Time's  dying  breath  will  have  blown  away  like  dust. 

Gone  from  thine  eye  that  brief  confused  stir, 
The  rumours  and  the  marching  and  the  strife; 

Earth  will  be  still,  and  all  the  face  of  her 
Swept  of  the  last  remains  of  moving  life; 

The  last  of  all  men's  monuments  that  defied  them, 

Like  those  his  valiant  gestures  that  denied  them, 
Into  the  waiting  elements  will  fade, 

And  thou  wilt  see  thy  fellow  traveller, 
A  forlorn  round  of  rocky  contours  made, 
A  glimmering  disk  of  empty  light  and  shade, 

[54] 


Ah,  depth  too  deep  for  thought  therein  to  cast; 

The  old,  the  cold  companions,  you  will  go, 
Obeying  still  some  long-forgotten  past, 

And  all  our  pitiful  history  none  will  know; 
Still  shining,  Moon,  still  peaceful,  wilt  thou  wander, 
But  on  that  greater  ball  no  heart  will  ponder 

The  thought  that  rose  and  nightingale  are  gone, 
And  all  sweet  things  but  thou;  and  only  vast 

Ridges  of  rock  remain,  and  stars  and  sun; 

0  Moon,  thou  wilt  be  lovely  alone  for  none. 

And  so,  pale  wanderer,  so  thou  leavest  me, 

Passing  beyond  imagination's  range, 
Away  into  the  void  where  waits  for  thee 

Thy  inconceivable  destiny  of  change; 
And  after  all  the  memories  I  have  striven 
To  paint,  this  picture  that  thyself  hast  given 

Lives,  and  I  watch,  to  all  those  others  blind, 
Thy  form,  gliding  into  eternity, 

Fading,  an  unconjectured  fate  to  find, 

The  last,  most  wonderful  image  of  the  mind. 


[55] 


THE  HAPPY  NIGHT 

I  HAVE  loved  to-night;  from  love's  last  bordering  steep 
I  have  fallen  at  last  with  joy  and  forgotten  the  shore; 
I  have  known  my  love  to-night  as  never  before, 
I  have  flung  myself  in  the  deep,  and  drawn  from  the  deep, 
And  kissed  her  lightly,  and  left  my  beloved  to  sleep. 
And  now  I  sit  in  the  night  and  my  heart  is  still : 
Strong  and  secure;  there  is  nothing  that's  left  to  will, 
There  is  nothing  to  win  but  only  a  thing  to  keep. 

And  I  look  to-night,  completed  and  not  afraid, 
Into  the  windy  dark  where  shines  no  light; 

And  care  not  at  all  though  the  darkness  never  should  fade, 
Nor  fear  that  death  should  suddenly  come  to-night. 

Knowing  my  last  would  be  surely  my  bravest  breath, 

I  am  happy  to-night:  I  have  laughed  to-night  at  death. 


[56] 


CONSTANTINOPLE 

"/  suddenly  realise  that  the  ambition  of  my  life  has  been 
— since  I  was  two — to  go  on  a  military  expedition  against 
Constantinople" — Letter  from  Rupert  Brooke.  (Died  at 
Scyros,  April  23rd,  1915.) 

JUSTINIAN 

DOES  the  church  stand  I  raised 
Against  the  unchristened  East? 
Still  do  my  ancient  altars  bear 
The  sacrificial  feast? 

My  jewels  are  they  bright, 

My  marbles  and  my  paint, 
Wherewith  I  glorified  the  Lord 

And  many  a  martyred  Saint? 

And  does  my  dome  still  float 

Above  the  Golden  Horn? 
And  do  my  priests  on  Christmas  Day 

Still  sing  that  Christ  was  born? 

EUROPE 

Though  dust  your  house,  Justinian, 

Still  stands  your  lordliest  shrine, 
But  the  dark  men  who  walk  therein, 

Know  not  of  bread  nor  wine. 

[57] 


They  fell  long  since  upon  your  stones, 
And  made  your  colours  dim, 

Their  priests  who  pray  on  Christmas  Day 
They  sing  no  Christmas  hymn. 

But  a  voice  at  evening  goes 
From  every  climbing  tower, 

Crying  a  word  you  never  heard, 
A  name  of  desert  power. 

CONSTANTINE   PAUEOLOGUS 

For  seven  hundred  years 

We  gripped  a  weakening  blade, 

Keeping  the  gateway  of  the  West 
With  none  to  give  us  aid. 

Till  at  the  last  they  broke 
What  Constantine  had  built, 

And  by  the  shattered  wall  the  blood 
Of  Constantine  was  spilt. 

Do  men  remember  still 

The  manner  of  my  death, 
How  after  all  those  failing  years 

I  at  the  last  kept  faith? 

EUROPE 

They  know  it  for  a  bygone  thing 

True  but  indifferent, 
For  many  a  fight  has  come  to  pass 

Since  to  the  wall  you  went. 
{58] 


Westward  and  northward,  Emperor, 
Poured  on  that  bloody  brood, 

Till  those  must  turn  to  save  themselves 
Who  had  known  not  gratitude. 

One  fought  them  on  the  Middle  Sea, 

One  at  Vienna's  gate, 
And  then  the  kings  of  Christendom 

Watched  the  red  tide  abate. 

Till  in  the  end  Byzantium 

Heard  a  returning  war; 
But  still  a  Mehmet  holds  your  tomb    . 

Keep  silence    .    ,    .    ask  no  more. 


[59] 


ELEGY 

1   VAGUELY  wondered  what  you  were  about, 
But  never  wrote  when  you  had  gone  away; 
Assumed  you  better,  quenched  the  uneasy  doubt 
You  might  need  faces,  or  have  things  to  say. 
Did  I  think  of  you  last  evening?     Dead  you  lay. 

0  bitter  words  of  conscience, 

1  hold  the  simple  message, 

And  fierce  with  grief  the  awakened  heart  cries  out : 
"It  shall  not  be  to-day; 

It  is  still  yesterday;  there  is  time  yet!" 

Sorrow  would  strive  backward  to  wrench  the  sun, 
But  the  sun  moves.     Our  onward  course  is  set, 
The  wake  streams  out,  the  engine  pulses  run 
Droning,  a  lonelier  voyage  is  begun. 
It  is  all  too  late  for  turning, 
You  are  past  all  mortal  signal, 
There  will  be  time  for  nothing  but  regret 
And  the  memory  of  things  done ! 

The  quiet  voice  that  always  counselled  best, 

The  mind  that  so  ironically  played 
Yet  for  mere  gentleness  forbore  the  jest. 

The  proud  and  tender  heart  that  sat  in  shade 

Nor  once  solicited  another's  aid, 

[60] 


Yet  was  so  grateful  always 
For  trifles  lightly  given, 
The  silences,  the  melancholy  guessed 
Sometimes,  when  your  eyes  strayed. 

But  always  when  you  turned,  you  talked  the  more. 

Through  all  our  literature  your  way  you  took 
With  modest  ease;  yet  would  you  soonest  pore, 
Smiling,  with  most  affection  in  your  look, 
On  the  ripe  ancient  and  the  curious  nook. 
Sage  travellers,  learned  printers, 
Divines  and  buried  poets, 
You  knew  them  all,  but  never  half  your  lore 
Was  drawn  from  any  book. 

Stories  and  jests  from  field  and  town  and  port, 

And  odd  neglected  scraps  of  history 
From  everywhere,  for  you  were  of  the  sort, 
Cool  and  refined,  who  like  rough  company: 
Carter  and  barmaid,  hawker  and  bargee, 
Wise  pensioners  and  boxers 
With  whom  you  drank,  and  listened 
To  legends  of  old  revelry  and  sport 
And  customs  of  the  sea. 

I  hear  you :  yet  more  clear  than  all  one  note, 

One  sudden  hail  I  still  remember  best, 
That  came  on  sunny  days  from  one  afloat 
And  drew  me  to  the  pane  in  certain  quest 
Of  a  long  brown  face,  bare  arms  and  flimsy  vest, 
In  fragments  through  the  branches, 
Above  the  green  reflections: 
Paused  by  the  willows  in  your  varnished  boat 
You,  with  your  oars  at  rest. 

[61] 


Did  that  come  back  to  you  when  you  were  dying? 

I  think  it  did:  you  had  much  leisure  there, 
And,  with  the  things  we  knew,  came  quietly  flying 
Memories  of  things  you  had  seen  we  knew  not  where. 
You  watched  again  with  meditative  stare 
Places  where  you  had  wandered, 
Golden  and  calm  in  distance: 
Voices  from  all  your  altering  past  came  sighing 
On  the  soft  Hampshire  air. 

For  there  you  sat  a  hundred  miles  away, 

A  rug  upon  your  knees,  your  hands  gone  frail, 
And  daily  bade  your  farewell  to  the  day, 
A  music  blent  of  trees  and  clouds  asail 
And  figures  in  some  old  neglected  tale: 
And  watched  the  sunset  gathering, 
And  heard  the  birdsong  fading, 
And  went  within  when  the  last  sleepy  lay 
Passed  to  a  farther  vale. 

Never  complaining,  and  stepped  up  to  bed 

More  and  more  slow,  a  tall  and  sunburnt  man 
Grown  bony  and  bearded,  knowing  you  would  be  dead 
Before  the  summer,  glad  your  life  began 
Even  thus  to  end,  after  so  short  a  span, 
And  mused  a  space  serenely, 
Then  fell  to  easy  slumber, 
At  peace,  content.    For  never  again  your  head 
Need  make  another  plan. 

Most  generous,  most  gentle,  most  discreet, 

Who  left  us  ignorant  to  spare  us  pain: 

We  went  our  ways  with  too  forgetful  feet 

[62] 


And  missed  the  chance  that  would  not  come  again, 
Leaving,  with  thoughts  on  pleasure  bent,  or  gain, 

Fidelity  unattested 

And  services  unrendered: 
The  ears  are  closed,  the  heart  has  ceased  to  beat, 

And  now  all  proof  is  vain. 

Too  late  for  other  gifts,  I  give  you  this, 

Who  took  from  you  so  much,  so  carelessly, 
On  your  far  brows  a  first  and  phantom  kiss, 
On  your  far  grave  a  careful  elegy. 
For  one  who  loved  all  life  and  poetry, 
Sorrow  in  music  bleeding, 
And  friendship's  last  confession. 
But  even  as  I  speak  that  inner  kiss 
Softly  accuses  me, 

Saying:   Those  brows  are  senseless,  deaf  that  tomb, 

This  is  the  callous,  cold  resort  of  art. 
"I  give  you  this."    What  do  I  give?  to  whom? 
Words  to  the  air,  and  balm  to  my  own  heart, 
To  its  old  luxurious  and  commanded  smart. 
An  end  to  all  this  tuning, 
This  cynical  masquerading; 
What  comfort  now  in  that  far  final  gloom 
Can  any  song  impart? 

0  yet  I  see  you  dawning  from  some  heaven, 
Who  would  not  suffer  self-reproach  to  live 
In  one  to  whom  your  friendship  once  was  given. 
I  catch  a  vision,  faint  and  fugitive, 
Of  a  dark  face  with  eyes  contemplative, 
Deep  eyes  that  smile  in  silence, 
And  parted  lips  that  whisper, 
"Say  nothing  more,  old  friend,  of  being  forgiven, 

There  is  nothing  to  forgive." 
[63] 


WARS  AND  RUMOURS,  1920 

BLOOD,  hatred,  appetite  and  apathy, 
The  sodden  many  and  the  struggling  strong, 
Who  care  not  now  though  for  another  wrong 
Another  myriad  innocents  should  die. 
At  candid  savagery  or  oily  lie 

We  laugh,  or,  turning,  join  the  noisy  throng 
Which  buries  the  dead  with  gluttony  and  song. 
Suppose  this  very  evening  from  on  high 
Broke  on  the  world  that  unexampled  flame 

The  choir-thronged  sky,  and  Thou,  descending,  Lord; 
What  agony  of  horror,  fear,  and  shame, 

For  those  who  knew  and  wearied  of  Thy  word, 
I  dare  not  even  think,  who  am  confest 
Idle,  malignant,  lustful  as  the  rest. 


[64] 


TO  A  MUSICIAN 

MUSICIAN,  with  the  bent  and  brooding  face, 
White  brow  and  thunderous  eyes:  you  are  not  play- 
ing 
Merely  the  music  that  dead  hand  did  trace. 

Musician,  with  the  lifted  resolute  face, 

And  scornful  smile  about  your  closed  mouth  straying, 
And  hand  that  moves  with  swift  or  fluttering  grace, 

It  is  not  that  man's  music  you  are  playing. 

The  grave  and  merry  tunes  he  made  you  are  playing, 
Each  march  and  dirge  and  dance  he  made  endures, 

But  changed  and  mastered,  and  these  things  you're  saying, 
These  joys  and  sorrows  are  not  his  but  yours. 

You  take  those  notes  of  his:  you  seize  and  fling 

His  music  as  a  dancer  flings  her  veil, 
Toss  it  and  twist  it,  mould  it,  make  it  sing, 

Whisper,  shout  savagely,  lament  and  wail, 

Rush  like  a  hurricane,  pause  and  faint  and  fail: 
And  as  I  watch,  my  body  and  soul  are  bound 
Helpless,  immovable,  in  thongs  of  sound. 

Lonely  and  strange  musician,  standing  there, 

Your  bent  ear  listening  to  your  own  soul  speaking, 

I  hear  vibrating  on  the  smitten  air 

The  crying  of  your  suffering  and  your  seeking. 

[65] 


Agonised!  raptured!  frustrate!  you  are  haunted, 
Pursued,  beset,  beleaguered,  filled,  possessed 

By  all  you  are,  all  things  you  have  lost  and  wanted, 
Things  clear,  too  clear,  things  only  to  be  guessed. 

I  do  not  know  what  earlier  scenes  you  knew, 
What  sweet  reproachful  memories  you  hold 

Of  broken  dreams  you  had  before  you  grew 
So  conscious  and  so  lonely  and  so  old. 

I  do  not  know  what  women's  words  have  taught 
Your  heart,  and  only  dimly  know  by  name, 

The  many  wandering  cities  where  you  have  sought 
Splendour,  and  found  the  hollowness  of  fame, 

Or  where  your  sad  and  gentle  reveries  pass 

To  family  and  home — who  have  for  signs 
Of  all  your  childhood,  only  the  imagined  grass 

Of  a  bright  steppe,  the  wind  running  in  lines, 

And  only  some  old  fairy-tale  of  sleighing, 

Dark  snow-deep  forests,  endless  turning  pines, 
Bells  tinkling,  and  wolves  howling,  and  hounds  baying. 

Vague  is  your  past,  yet  as  your  violin  sings, 

Its  wildness  held  in  desperate  control, 
I  know  them  all,  that  world  of  bygone  things 

That  have  left  their  wounds  and  wonders  in  your  soul. 

Out  in  all  weathers  you  have  been,  my  friend, 
Climbed  into  dawn,  stood  solitary  and  stark 

Against  the  ashen  quiet  of  twilight's  end, 

Brooded  beneath  the  night's  unanswering  dark; 

[66] 


Through  battering  tempests  you  have  blindly  won, 
And  lived,  and  found  a  medicine  for  your  scars 

In  resolution  taken  from  the  sun 

And  patience  from  the  still  unsleeping  stars. 

And  here,  in  this  crowded  place  an  hour  staying, 

Your  dim  orchestra  measuring  off  your  bars, 
So  pale  and  proud,  you  stand  your  secrets  flaying, 

Resolving  the  tangle,  pouring  through  your  song 
All  your  deep  ache  for  Beauty,  calm  above 

Your  bitter  silent  anger  and  the  strong 
Ferocity  and  tenderness  of  your  love, 

Loud  challenges  and  sweet  and  cynic  laughter, 

Movements  of  joy  spontaneous  and  pure, 
Remorse,  and  the  dull  grief  that  glimmers  after 

The  obstinate  sins  you  know  you  will  not  cure. 

I  see  you  subtly  lying,  soberly  weighing 

Gross  questions,  jesting  at  the  things  you  hate, 

In  apathy,  and  wild  despair,  and  praying 

Bowed  down  before  the  shadowy  knees  of  Fate, 

And  fearfully  behind  the  visible  groping 

And  standing  by  the  heart's  bottomless  pit,  and  shrinking, 
Who  have  known  the  lure  and  mockery  of  hoping, 

The  comic  terrible  uselessness  of  thinking. 

0  gay  and  passionate,  gloomy  and  serene, 

Your  quivering  fingers  laugh  and  weep  and  curse 

For  all  the  phantoms  you  have  ever  been. 
Yet  would  you  wish  another  universe? 

[67] 


Let  peace  come  if  it  will:  your  last  long  note 
Dies  on  the  quiet  breast  of  space;  and  now 

They  clap:  I  see  again  your  square  frock  coat, 
Dark,  foreign  fiddler,  you  have  stopped :  you  bow. 


[68] 


THE  RUGGER  MATCH 

(OXFORD  AND  CAMBRIDGE — QUEEN'S — DECEMBER) 
(To  Hugh  Brooks) 


THE  walls  make  a  funnel,  packed  full ;  the  distant  gate 
Bars  us  from  inaccessible  light  and  peace. 
Far  over  necks  and  ears  and  hats,  I  see 
Policemen's  helmets  and  cards  hung  on  the  ironwork: 
"One  shilling,"  "No  change  given,"  "Ticket-holders  only"; 
Oh  Lord!     What  an  awful  crush!     There  are  faces  pale 
And  strained,  and  faces  with  animal  grins  advancing, 
Stuck  fast  around  mine.    We  move,  we  pause  again 
For  an  age,  then  a  forward  wave  and  another  stop. 
The  pressure  might  squeeze  one  flat.     Dig  heels  into  ground 
For  this  white  and  terrified  woman  whose  male  insists 
Upon  room  to  get  back.    Why  didn't  I  come  here  at  one? 
Why  come  here  at  all?    What  strange  little  creatures  we  are, 
Wedged  and  shoving  under  the  contemptuous  sky! 

All  things  have  stopped;  the  time  will  never  go  by; 

We  shall  never  get  in !     .    .    .    Yet  through  the  standing  glass 

The  sand  imperceptible  drops,  the  inexorable  laws 

Of  number  work  also  here.    They  are  passing  and  passing, 

I  can  hear  the  tick  of  the  turnstiles,  tick,  tick,  tick, 

[69] 


A  man.  a  woman,  a  man,  shreds  of  the  crowd, 

A  man,  a  man,  till  the  vortex  sucks  me  in 

And,  squeezed  between  strangers  hurting  the  flat  of  my  arms, 

I  am  jetted  forth,  and  pay  my  shilling,  and  pass 

To  freedom  and  space,  and  a  cool  for  the  matted  brows. 

But  we  cannot  rest  yet.     Fast  from  the  gates  we  issue, 

Spread  conelike  out,  a  crowd  of  loosening  tissue, 

All  jigging  on,  and  making  as  we  travel 

"Pod,  pod"  of  feet  on  earth,  "chix,  chix"  on  gravel. 

Heads  forward,  striding  eagerly,  we  keep 

Round  to  the  left  in  semi-circular  sweep 

By  the  back  of  a  stand,  excluded,  noting  the  row 

Of  heads  that  speck  the  top,  and,  caverned  below, 

The  raw,  rough,  timber  back  of  the  new-made  mound. 

Quicker!     The  place  is  swarming!     Around,  around 

Till  the  edge  is  reached,  and  we  see  a  patch  of  green, 

Two  masts  with  a  crossbar,  tapering,  white  and  clean, 

And  confluent  rows  of  people  that  merge  and  die 

In  a  flutter  of  faces  where  the  grand-stand  blocks  the  sky. 

We  hurry  along,  past  ragged  files  of  faces, 

Flushing  and  quick,  peering  for  empty  places. 

I  see  one  above  me,  I  step  and  prise  and  climb, 

And  stand  and  turn  and  breathe  and  look  at  the  time, 

Survey  the  field,  and  note  with  superior  glance, 

The  anxious  bobbing  fools  who  still  advance. 

II 

Ah!    They  are  coming  still.    It  is  filling  up. 

It  is  full.    They  come.    There  is  almost  an  hour  to  go, 

Yet  all  find  room,  the  dribbles  of  black  disappear 

In  the  solid  piles  around  that  empty  green, 

We  are  packed  and  ready  now.    They  might  as  well  start, 

But  two-forty-five  was  their  time,  and  it's  only  ten  past, 

[70] 


And  it's  got  to  be  lived  through.    I  haven't  a  newspaper, 

I  wish  I  could  steal  that  little  parson's  book. 

I  count  three  minutes  slowly:   they  seem  like  an  hour; 

And  then  I  change  feet  and  loosen  the  brim  of  my  hat, 

And  curse  the  crawling  of  time.    Oh  body,  body! 

Why  did  I  order  you  here,  to  stand  and  feel  tired, 

To  ache  and  ache  and  when  the  time  will  never  pass, 

In  this  buzzing  crowd,  before  all  those  laden  housetops, 

Around  this  turf,  under  the  lid  of  the  sky? 

I  fumble  my  watch  again :  it  is  two-twenty : 

Twenty-five  minutes  to  wait.    One,  two,  three,  four, 

Five,  six,  seven,  eight:   what  is  the  good  of  counting? 

It  won't  be  here  any  quicker,  aching  hips, 

Bored  brain,  unquiet  heart,  you  are  doomed  to  wait. 

Why  did  I  make  you  come?    We  have  been  before, 

Struggling  with  time,  fatigued  and  dull  and  alone 

In  all  this  tumultuous,  chattering,  happy  crowd 

That  never  knew  pain  and  never  questions  its  acts     .     .     . 

Never  questions?     Do  not  deceive  yourself. 

Look  at  the  faces  around  you,  active  and  gay, 

They  are  lined,  there  are  brains  behind  them,  breasts  beneath 

them, 

They  have  only  escaped  for  an  hour,  and  even  now 
Many,  like  you,  have  not  escaped;  and  away 
Across  the  field  those  faces  ascending  in  tiers, 
Each  face  is  a  story,  a  tragedy  and  a  doubt; 
And  the  teams  where  they  wait,  in  the  sacred  place  to  the 

right, 
Are  bewildered  souls,  who  have  heard  of  and  brooded  on 

death, 

And  thought  about  God.    But  this  is  a  football  match; 
And  anyhow  I  don't  feel  equal  to  thinking, 
And   I'm  certain  the  teams  don't;    they've  something  better 

to  do. 

[71] 


It  is  half-past  two,  and,  thank  Heaven,  a  minute  over. 

We  are  all  here  now.    The  laggards  have  all  booked  seats 

And  stroll  in  lordly  leisure  along  the  front. 

What  a  man !    Six  foot,  silk  hat,  brown  face,  moustache ! 

What  a  fat  complacent  parson,  snuggling  down 

In  the  chair  there,  among  all  his  cackling  ladies! 

I  have  seen  that  youth  before.     My  neighbour  now 

On  my  left  shouts  out  to  a  college  friend  below  us, 

"Tommy!     Hallo!     Do  you  think  we  are  going  to  beat  'em?" 

My  watch.     Twenty-to-three.     That  lot  went  quickly; 

Five  minutes  more  is  nothing;  I'm  lively  now 

And  fit  for  a  five-mile  run.     One,  two,  three,  four    .     .     . 

It  isn't  worth  bothering  now,  it's  all  but  here, 

Here,  here;  a  rustle,  a  murmur,  a  ready  silence, 

A  billowing  cheer — why,  here  they  come,  running  and  passing, 

The  challenging  team!     By  God,  what  magnificent  fellows! 

They  have  dropped  the  ball,  they  pause,  they  sweep  onward 

again, 

And  so  to  the  end.     Here  are  the  rest  of  them, 
Swingingly  up  the  field  and  back  as  they  came, 
With  the  cheers  swelling  and  swelling.    They  disappear, 
And  out,  like  wind  upon  water,  come  their  rivals, 
With  cheers  swelling  and  swelling,  to  run  and  turn 
And  vanish;  and  now  they  are  all  come  out  together, 
Two  teams  walking,  touch-judges  and  referee. 
And  they  all  line  up,  dotted  about  like  chessmen, 
And  the  multitude  holds  its  breath,  and  awaits  the  start. 

Ill 

Whistle!  A  kick!   A  rush,  a  scramble,  a  scrum, 
The  forwards  are  busy  already,  the  halves  hover  round, 
The  three-quarters  stand  in  backwards  diverging  lines, 
Eagerly  bent,  atoe,  with  elbows  back, 

[72] 


And  hands  that  woulJ  grasp  at  a  ball,  trembling  to  start, 

While  the  solid  backs  vigilant  stray  about 

And  the  crowd  gives  out  a  steady  resolute  roar, 

Like  the  roar  of  a  sea;  a  scrum,  a  whistle,  a  scrum; 

A  burst,  a  whistle,  a  scrum,  a  kick  into  touch; 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  field.    He  is  tossing  it  in, 

They  have  got  it  and  downed  it,  and  whurry,  oh,  here  they 

come, 

Streaming  like  a  waterfall,  oh,  he  has  knocked  it  on, 
Right  at  our  feet,  and  the  scrum  is  formed  again, 
And  everything  seems  to  stop  while  they  pack  and  go  crooked. 
The  scrum-half  beats  them  straight  with  a  rough  smack 
While  he  holds  the  ball,  debonair.    .    .    .    How  it  all  comes 

back, 
As   the  steam   goes   up   of   their  breath   and  their   sweating 

trunks! 

The  head  low  down,  the  eyes  that  swim  to  the  ground, 
The  mesh  of  ownerless  knees,  the  patch  of  dark  earth, 
The  ball  that  comes  in,  and  wedges  and  jerks,  and  is  caught, 
And  sticks,  the  dense  intoxicant  smell  of  sweat, 
The  grip  on  the  moisture  of  jerseys,  the  sickening  urge 
That  seems  powerless  to  help;  the  desperate  final  shove 
That  somehow  is  timed  with  a  general  effort,  the  sweep 
Onward,  while  enemies  reel,  and  the  whole  scrum  turns 
And  we  torrent  away  with  the  ball.    Oh,  I  know  it  all.    .    .    . 
I  know  it.    .'   .    .    Where  are  they?    .    .    .    Far  on  the  oppo- 
site line, 

Aimlessly  kicking  while  the  forwards  stand  gaping  about, 
Deprived   of   their   work.     Convergence.     They   are   coming 

again, 

They  are  scrumming  again  below,  red  hair,  black  cap, 
And  a  horde  of  dark  colourless  heads  and  straining  backs; 
A  voice  rasps  up  through  the  howl  of  the  crowd  around 
(Triumphant  now  in  possession  over  all  the  rest 

[73] 


Of  crowds  who  have  lost  the  moving  treasure  to  us)  — 
"Push,  you  devils!"    They  push,  and  push,  and  push; 
The  opponents  yield,  the  fortress  wall  goes  down, 
The  ram  goes  through,  an  irresistible  rush 
Crosses  the  last  white  line,  and  tumbles  down, 
And  the  ball  is  there.    A  try!     A  try!     A  try! 
The  shout  from  the  host  we  are  assaults  the  sky. 


Deep  silence.    Line  up  by  the  goal-posts.    A  man  lying  down, 

Poising  the  pointed  ball,  slanted  away, 

And  another  who  stands,  and  hesitates,  and  runs 

And  lunges  out  with  his  foot,  and  the  ball  soars  up, 

While  the  opposite  forwards  rush  below  it  in  vain, 

And  curves  to  the  posts,  and  passes  them  just  outside. 

The  touch-judge's  flag  hangs  still.     It  was  only  a  try! 

Three  points  to  us.    The  roar  is  continuous  now, 

The  game  swings  to  and  fro  like  a  pendulum 

Struck  by  a  violent  hand.    But  the  impetus  wanes, 

The  forwards  are  getting  tired,  and  all  the  outsides 

Run  weakly,  pass  loosely;  there  are  one  or  two  penalty  kicks. 

And  a  feeble  attempt  from  a  mark.    The  ball  goes  out 

Over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  comes  wearily  back; 

And,  lingering  about  in  mid-field,  the  tedious  game 

Seems  for  a  while  a  thing  interminable. 

And  nothing  happens,  till  all  of  a  sudden  a  shrill 

Blast  from  the  whistle  flies  out  and  arrests  the  game. 

Half-time    .    .    .    Unlocking    .    .    .    The  players  are  all  erect, 

Easy  and  friendly,  standing  about  in  groups, 

Figures  in  sculpture,  better  for  mud-stained  clothes; 

Couples  from  either  side  chatting  and  laughing, 

And  chewing  lemons,  and  throwing  the  rinds  away. 


[74] 


IV 

The  pause  is  over.    They  part  from  each  other,  sift  out; 
The  backs  trot  out  to  their  stations,  the  forwards  spread; 
The  captains  beckon  with  hands,  and  the  ball  goes  off 
To  volleys  and  answering  volleys  of  harsher  cheers; 
For  the  top  of  the  hill  is  past,  we  course  to  the  close. 
We've  a  three-point  lead.    Can  we  keep  it?     It  isn't  enough. 
We  have  always  heard  their  three-quarters  were  better  than 

ours, 

If  they  once  get  the  ball.    They  have  got  it,  he  runs,  he  passes, 
The  centre  dodges,  is  tackled,  passes  in  time 
To  the  other  centre  who  goes  like  a  bird  to  the  left 
And  flings  it  out  to  the  wing.    The  goal  is  open; 
He  has  only  to  run  as  he  can.    No,  the  back  is  across, 
He  has  missed  him;  he  has  him;  they  topple,  head  over  heels, 
And  the  ball  bumps  along  into  touch.    They  are  stuck  on  our 

line; 
Scrum   after   scrum,    with    those   dangerous   threes    standing 

waiting, 

Threat  after  threat  forced  back;  a  save,  a  return; 
And  the  same  thing  over  again,  till  the  ball  goes  out 
Almost  unnoticed,  and  before  we  can  see  what  is  done, 
That  centre  has  kicked,  he  has  thought  of  the  four  points, 
The  ball  soars,  slackens,  keeps  upright  with  effort, 
Then  floats  between  posts  and  falls,  ignored,  to  the  ground, 
Its  grandeur  gone,  while  the  touch -judge  flaps  his  flag, 
And  the  multitude  becomes  an  enormous  din 
Which  dies  as  the  game  resumes,  and  then  rises  again, 
As  battle  of  cry  of  triumph  and  counter-cry, 
Defiant,  like  great  waves  surging  against  each  other. 
They  work  to  the  other  corner,  they  stay  there  long; 
They  push  and  wheel,  there  are  runs  that  come  to  nothing, 
Till  the  noise  wanes,  and  a  curious  silence  comes. 

[75] 


They  lead  by  a  point,  their  crowd  is  sobered  now, 

Anxious  still  lest  a  sudden  chance  should  come, 

Or  a  sudden  resource  of  power  in  mysterious  foes 

Which  may  dash  them  again  from  their  new  precarious  peak, 

Whilst  we  in  our  hearts  are  aware  of  the  chilling  touch 

Of  loss,  of  a  fatal  thing  irrevocable, 

Feel  the  time  fly  to  the  dreaded  last  wail  of  the  whistle, 

And  see  our  team  as  desperate  waves  that  dash 

Against  a  wall  of  rock,  to  be  scattered  in  spray. 

Yet  fervour  comes  back,  for  the  players  have  no  thought  for 

the  past 

Except  as  a  goad  to  new  effort,  not  they  will  be  chilled: 
Fiercer  and  faster  they  fight,  a  grimness  comes 
Into  shoving  and  running  and  tackling  and  handing  off. 
We  are  heeling  the  ball  now  cleanly,  time  after  time 
Our  half  picks  it  up  and  instantly  jabs  it  away, 
And  the  beautiful  swift  diagonal  quarter-line 
Tips  it  across  for  the  wing  to  go  like  a  stag 
Till  he's  cornered  and  falls  and  the  gate  swings  shut  again, 
Thirty  fighting  devils,  ten  thousand  throats, 
Thundering  joy  at  each  pass  and  tackle  and  punt, 
Yet  the  consciousness  grows  that  the  time  approaches  the  end, 
The  threat  of  conclusion  grows  like  a  spreading  tree 
And  casts  its  shadow  on  all  the  anxious  people, 
And  is  fully  known  when  they  stop  as  a  man's  knocked  out 
And  limps  from  the  field  with  his  arms  round  two  comrades' 

necks. 

The  gradual  time  seems  to  have  suddenly  leapt.    .    .    . 
And  all  this  while  the  unheeded  winter  sky 
Has  faded,  and  the  air  gone  bluer  and  mistier. 
The  players,  when  they  drift  away  to  a  corner 
Distant  from  us,  seem  to  have  left  our  world. 
We  see  the  struggling  forms,  tangling  and  tumbling, 
We  hear  the  noise  from  the  featureless  mass  around  them, 

[76] 


But  the  dusk  divides.     Finality  seems  to  have  come. 

Nothing  can  happen  now.     The  attention  drifts. 

There's  a  pause;  I  become  a  separate  thing  again, 

Almost  forget  the  game,  forget  my  neighbours, 

And  the  noise  fades  in  my  ears  to  a  dim  rumour. 

I  watch  the  lines  and  colours  of  field  and  buildings, 

So  simple  and  soft  and  few  in  the  vapoury  air, 

I  am  held  by  the  brightening  orange  lights  of  the  matches 

Perpetually  pricking  the  haze  across  the  ground, 

And  the  scene  is  tinged  with  a  quiet  melancholy, 

The  harmonious  sadness  of  twilight  on  willowed  waters, 

Still  avenues  or  harbours  seen  from  the  sea. 

Yet  a  louder  shout  recalls  me,  I  wake  again, 

Find  there  are  two  minutes  left,  and  it's  nearly  over, 

See  a  few  weaklings  already  walking  out, 

Caring  more  to  avoid  a  crush  with  the  crowd 

Than  to  give  the  last  stroke  to  a  ritual  of  courtesy 

And  a  work  of  intangible  art.    But  we're  all  getting  ready, 

Hope  gone,  and  fear,  except  in  the  battling  teams. 

Regret    ...    a  quick  movement  of  hazy  forms, 

Oh  quiet,  oh  look,  there  is  something  happening, 

Sudden  one  phantom  form  on  the  other  wing 

Emerges  from  nothingness,  is  singled  out, 

Curving  in  a  long  sweep  like  a  flying  gull, 

Through  the  thick  fog,  swifter  as  borne  by  wind, 

Swerves  at  the  place  where  the  corner-flag  must  be, 

And  runs,  by  Heaven  he's  over!  and  runs,  and  runs, 

And  our  hearts  leap,  and  our  sticks  go  up  in  the  air 

And  our  hats  whirl,  and  we  lose  ourselves  in  a  yell 

For  a  try  behind  the  posts.    We  have  beaten  them! 

Outside;  and  a  mob  hailing  cabs,  besieging  the  station, 

Sticks,  overcoats,  scarves,  bowler  hats,  intensified  faces, 

Rushes,  apologies,  voices:  "Simpson's  at  seven," 

"Hallo.  Jim,"  "See  you  next  term,"  "I've  just  seen  old  Peter." 

[77] 


They  go  to  their  homes,  to  catch  trains,  all  over  the  city, 
All  over  England;  or,  many,  to  make  a  good  night  of  it, 
Eat  oysters,  drink  more  than  usual,  dispute  of  the  match. 
For  the  match  is  all   over,  and  what,  being  done,   does  it 

matter? 
What  happened  last  year?     I  was  here;  I  should  know,  but 

I  don't. 

Next  year  there  will  be  another,  with  another  result, 
Just  such  another  crowd,  just  as  excited. 
And  after  next  year,  for  a  year  and  a  year  and  a  year, 
Till  customs  have  changed  and  things  crumbled  and  all  this 

strife 

Is  a  dim  word  from  the  past.    Why,  even  to-night, 
When  the  last  door  has  been  locked,  the  last  groundsman 

will  go, 

Leaving  that  field  which  was  conquered  and  full  of  men, 
With  darkened  houses  around,  void  and  awake, 
Silently  talking  to  the  silent  travelling  moon: 
"The  day  passed.    They  have  gone  again.    They  will  die." 
To-night  in  the  moon  the  neighbouring  roofs  will  lie 
Lonely  and  still,  all  of  their  dwellers  in  bed; 
The  phantom  stands  will  glisten,  the  goal-posts  rise 
Slanting  their  shadows  across  the  grass,  as  calm 
As  though  they  had  never  challenged  an  eager  swarm, 
Or  any  ball  had  made  their  crossbars  quiver. 
Clouds  will  pass,  and  the  city's  murmur  fade, 
And  the  open  field  await  its  destiny 
Of  transient  invaders  coming  and  going. 
What  was  the  point  of  it?    Why  did  the  heart  leap  high 
Putting  reason  back,  to  watch  that  fugitive  play? 
Why  not?    We  must  all  distract  ourselves  with  toys. 
Not  a  brick  nor  a  heap  remains,  the  more  durable  product 
Of  all  that  effort  and  pain.     Yet,  sooner  or  later, 
As  much  may  be  said  of  any  human  game, 

[78] 


War,  politics,  art,  building,  planting  and  ploughing, 

The  explorer's  freezing,  the  astronomer's  searching  of  stars, 

The  philosopher's  fight  through  the  thickening  webs  of  thought, 

And  the  writing  of  poems:  a  hand,  a  stir  and  a  sinking. 

And  so,  no  more,  of  the  general  game  of  the  Race, 

That  cannot  know  of  its  origin  or  its  end, 

But  strives,  for  their  own  sake,  its  courage  and  skill 

To  increase,  till  Frost  or  a  Flying  Flame  calls  "Time!" 

I  have  seen  this  day  men  in  the  beauty  of  movement, 

A  gallant  jaw  set,  the  form  of  a  hero  that  flew, 

Cunning,  a  selfless  flinging  of  self  in  the  fray, 

Strength,  compassion,  control,  the  obeying  of  laws, 

Victory,  and  a  struggle  against  defeat. 

I  think  that  the  Power  that  gave  us  the  bodies  we  have, 

Can  only  be  praised  by  our  use  of  the  things  He  gave, 

That  we  are  not  here  to  turn  our  backs  to  the  sun, 

Or  to  scorn  the  delight  of  our  limbs.    And  for  those  who  have 

eyes 

The  beauty  of  this  is  the  same  as  the  beauty  of  flowers, 
And  of  eagles  and  lions  and  mountains  and  oceans  and  stars, 
And  I  care  not,  but  rather  am  glad  that  the  thought  will  recur 
That  in  Egypt  the  muscles  moved  under  the  shining  skins 
As  here,  and  in  Greece  where  Olympian  champions  died, 
And  in  isles  long  ago,  where  never  a  record  was  kept. 
And  now  I'll  go  home,  and  open  a  bottle  of  port, 
And  think  upon  beauty  and  God  and  the  wonder  of  love, 
That  laughs  at  the  shadow  of  Death,  and  my  vanished  youth, 
And  the  throbbing  heart  that  beats  its  own  drum  to  the  grave, 
Returning  absurdly  again  to  the  fact  that  we  won, 
Content  to  let  darkness  deepen,  and  stars  shine. 


[79] 


POEMS 

SECOND 

SKRIKS 

J.C. 
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